


mince pies and mistletoe

by eroticgropefest (goldfishsunglasses)



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Baking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9120970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishsunglasses/pseuds/eroticgropefest
Summary: simon's up late baking on christmas eve when baz shows up at his door





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arituzz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arituzz/gifts).



> written for carry on secret santa 2016 :D

**Simon ******  
I’m rolling out pie crust when there’s a knock on the door. I decide to ignore it, because we’re closed and if they can’t read the sign, well that’s not my fault. The knocking becomes more insistent, and I begin to wonder if I should go see what’s wrong. What if it’s an emergency? Why else would someone be here at--I look at the clock about the stove--11 pm on Christmas Eve?

Brushing the flour from my hands onto my jeans (Penny hates when I do that), I move from the kitchen to the front of the bakery to get the door. I open it and first thing I notice is that it’s snowing outside. Hard. The second thing I notice is that there’s a boy at the door. No, not a boy, a man. He’s covered in snow and shivering slightly, and I open the door further. He nods at me and steps inside.

“Thanks.” He says, and all I can do is nod dumbly.

Penny will definitely kill me for this. (If he doesn’t beat her to it.) (Not that I’m actually afraid of him, he’s just taller and more built, that’s all.)

“I promise not to murder you,” he says like he read my mind. “Scouts honor.”

“You were a scout?”

He smirks, and it does something funny to my stomach. “No.”

We settle into an awkward silence, just staring each other down, waiting for the other one to make the first move.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask, and for a moment I think he’s going to say no, but he doesn’t.

“Please,” He says instead, and I stand up to fetch him some.

I’ve just put the kettle on when he appears in the doorway.

“I’ll only be a minute.” I say. He doesn’t move. Thinking he hasn’t heard me I repeat “I’ll only be a minute,” and he smirks again.

“You already said that.”

“Well,” I retort, “you didn’t answer.”

“Didn’t think I needed to.”

I bite back a remark, and he looks away. I use this time to fully check him out. (Not like that.) He’s taller than I am, which I’d noticed earlier, and more muscular, which I’d also noticed. He must work out, or play some kind of sport. His dark hair is in what Agatha’d call a “man bun”, and for a minute I picture him letting it down and me running my hands through it.

 

His eyes are dark and--I don’t want to say “mysterious” because that sounds like shit out of one of Penny’s romance novels that she pretends she doesn’t read--but they are a bit mysterious. Like he has secrets. I want to know them all.

He has an interesting face, and if I wasn’t worried about him thinking I was some sort of nutter, I’d look at it all day.

I’m torn from my thoughts by the whistle of the kettle, and he smirks like he knows exactly what I was thinking about. Fuck, I hope not. I don’t know even know this guys name yet; I definitely don’t know him well enough to have potentially gay thoughts and daydreams about his hair.

Oh, Christ.

With subtly shaking hands, I pour some water into the waiting mug and dunk the tea bag in. As I hand him his cup, our fingers brush. The weird feeling in my stomach is back, and for some reason I think I’m blushing. He takes the cup from me, and I clear my throat.

“What’s your name?”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s...Baz. You can call me Baz.”

“Simon.” I say. “My name is Simon.”

“Really? Is that why this place is called Simon’s?”

“Very funny,” I say, sticking my tongue out like I’m 5 instead of 27. I watch as his eyes move from my tongue to his cup, and he looks away quickly.

Baz. I should start thinking of him as Baz.

I figured he’d stay in the front, but instead he--I mean, Baz--stands up and follows me back to the kitchen, hopping up on the counter and staring at me.

“Why didn’t you stay at the table?”

“It’s warmer back here.”

“How do you know that?”

“Ovens?”

“I just...I thought you’d stay there.”

“Why?”

“Because…” _Because I don’t know you_ I think.

I push that thought away and try to ignore him as I resume rolling the pie crusts I’d been working on before he showed up. I note that the dough has dried out a bit since then, but it should still be good.

I look around the room but I can’t find my cutter. I feel very self-conscious as I start rummaging through drawers trying to locate it. This is just like me to lose something like this. I should have taken it out before I started. Penny’s always on my case about that. “Make sure you have all your supplies ready before you begin, Simon!” She says, nearly every time too. Maybe one day it will stick.

I’ve finally got the cutter in hand when I hear a thump thump thump and look up to see Baz tapping his heels against the cupboard door.

I grit my teeth “Can you quit it?” He does, but not without a final thump.

Christ, Baz hasn’t even been here 10 minutes and he’s already under my skin. It’s infuriating. He’s infuriating.

He’s sitting on the counter drinking his tea and staring. Just staring. It’s making me feel self-conscious, like he’s judging me, judging my baking abilities. Like I don’t own a bakery. Like I haven’t made thousands of these pies. Like…

“I know how to make pie.” I say hotly, and he blinks.

“What?”

“I said, I know how to make pie.”

He looks confused. “I know that.”

“Okay.” I nod, “okay.”

I try to fit as many circles in the dough as I can, making a note to save and freeze the extras. Penny loves when I make something she’s dubbed “pie chips”, where I bake extra pie crust in chip size strips, and she dips them in filling. I think it’s disgusting, she thinks it’s delicious. I won’t argue with her.

I can feel Baz’s eyes on the back of my neck as I press the dough into the tins. Once the last one is in, I turn around. He’s still looking at me, and I feel a strange sort of satisfaction at the fact that he can’t seem to stop.

“Pass me that jar?” I ask.

Baz finally breaks eye contact and points to the mincemeat. “This one?”

“Yeah.”

He picks it up and hands it to me. A small part of my is hoping our fingers will touch again. I could do it on purpose, of course, but it’s not the same.

“You make this yourself?” He asks, and I nod as I open the jar.

“I make everything in the bakery, nothing here is storebought.”

“Even the tea?”

I can tell he’s joking, but I’m so on edge right now that I’m still defensive. “You know the tea is store bought.” I snap, and he looks a bit taken aback at my tone. I instantly feel bad, and hope I haven’t offended him.

“Would you like to smell?” I ask, holding up the jar. Baz nods and I hold it out. He takes a sniff and tries to stick his finger in the filling. I swat his hand away. He laughs and doesn’t try again. My glasses are falling down my nose and I move to fix them but he beats me to it. I go cross-eyed for a second as he holds his finger to the bridge. He moves it away, raises his eyebrows, and gestures to the waiting piecrusts.

“Can I help?” He asks.

I nod.

“What do I need to do?”

“Just fill it all the way to the top.” I say, hand him the jar. I grab a second one from the cupboard and get to work.

He adds a heaping spoonful. “Like this?”

“That’s perfect.”

He looks pleased at the compliment, and I’m pleased to see him pleased.

The oven beeps to let me know the batch I put in earlier is finished, and I shoo him out of the way while I get the tin out. He leans over my shoulder and inhales. I feel his breath tickle my neck, but I really don’t mind.

“Can I have a pie?” He asks.

“No.”

“Please?”

“Fine,” I relent, “if you can ice half of these cookies before I do, you can have a pie.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, then you don’t get one. Obviously.”

“That’s fair,” he says, and then, “why is your shop open on Christmas day?” He asks as I’m sorting the cookies into two piles. I wish he hadn’t. The last thing I want to do tonight is to blurt out my sob story to a perfect stranger.

“Here,” I say, holding out a newly frosted cookie, “try this.”

I can tell he’s still curious, but thankfully instead of pushing the question, he opens his mouth. I’m confused for a second until I realize what he wants. I inch the cookie closer to his lips, and he takes a bite, staring at me the whole time. I’m staring back. I can’t look away. I watch as he chews and swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing. I’m still staring as he licks the crumbs from his lips, and finally stop when he clears his throat.

“It’s good.” He says.

“Of course it is,” I smirk, “my cookies are the best.”

“I wouldn’t say _best_.” He says, and I roll my eyes.

I’ll admit, it’s nice to have company while I work. Even if it is him.

We ice the cookies in a comfortable silence. I’m extremely aware of his elbow so close to mine, and I will my heart to slow down every time we bump elbows.

“You’re going to make me mess up.” He grumbles, and I murmur a quick sorry as I put a smile on the final cookie.

“Finished my half.” I say, and he groans.

“I really wanted that pie.”

“We can split it.”

“No, you won it fair and square.”

I tear off a piece of the warm pie and hold it out for him to take. Instead, he opens his mouth, and I hesitate for a second before lifting it to his lips. I watch as he opens his mouth and takes the bite, licking his lips after he does so. Christ, I don’t think I’m breathing.

This is the second time tonight we’ve done this, and I really shouldn’t be finding this so sexy but the way he just looks at me makes me go weak in the knees.

“I need to put these somewhere to cool,” I say, and he nods, stepping away from me.

When I return, Baz is sat on the floor, leaning against the cupboards.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, just as the oven beeps again as the second batch of pies finishes cooking.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sitting.”

“Why are you sitting _there_?” I ask, and he shrugs. I echo his shrug and after removing the other pies and setting them on the counter, join him on the floor. We’re sitting barely centimeters apart, and I can feel the warmth from his body on mine. It’s making me very very aware of just how close he is, and aware that I want him even closer.

Where did that thought come from?

“So, is it just the two of you here?” Baz asks, tearing me away from my inner dialogue.

“No, I have two other employees but I gave them the day off today. Well, yesterday I suppose. And I’d told Penny she could take the day as well, but she’d just looked at me like I was crazy and said ‘Who’ll do the numbers, Simon?’ and I had to agree.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m terrible at math.”

“No, I mean why did you give them all the day off.”

I stare at him. “Because Christmas Eve? I wanted them to get some time with their families.”

“What about your family?”

I start to stand. “Let me get you another cookie.”

He grabs my elbow. “Are you going to offer me a cookie every time I ask you a personal question?”

“What if I say yes?”

“I’d say I’d rather have an answer.”

“Ask me about something else, anything else. Please.”

“Okay,” Baz says, “What are you hoping to get for Christmas?”

“A good review from underthetable.”

Something that looks like confusion flickers over his face. “Who?”

“Oh, sorry, I forget not everyone knows who they are. Underthetable is a blogger. A food blogger.”

“Blogger?” He asks.

“You know, someone with a blog? Like on the internet?”

“Anyway, this guy...or girl...or--well, they review places. Restaurants, cafes, bakeries...stuff like that.”

“Are they a big deal?”

“The biggest.”

“I’m sure they would be flattered to know their opinion means to much to you.”

“Not just me,” I say, “everyone reads their blog.”

“Surely not _everyone_.”

“Yes, _everyone_.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Simon,” he says, looking curious again, “why is this review so important to you?”

“It just...it just is.” I stammer out.

“You don’t have a reason?”

“Do I need one? Isn’t the desire to be the best enough? Do I need a tragic backstory to become successful?”

“No…”

“Can’t I just want this? Can’t I just--”

“Hey,” he interrupts, “it’s okay.”

He opens his arms, and I lean into him. He strokes my hair, and it strikes me as an oddly intimate gesture for someone I’ve met less than 2 hours ago, but I find that I don’t mind.

He lets go, but I still stay pressed against him. It feels nice. He’s warm and comforting. Nothing at all like the sarcastic dick he was earlier. Except...this is still the same person. And I didn’t mind the sarcasm. (Okay, maybe a little, but this more than makes up for it.) (Plus I can be annoying too.)

“So,” he says, “you have no idea who “underthetable” is?”

I shake my head. “Like I told you, no one does. But there were a few times I thought I’d figured it out.”

“Oh?”

I nod. “I have this regular, Miss Possibelf, and for a while I thought it might be her, but then she started coming by more and more often, and that theory sort of went out the window. At first Penny thought that just might be a ruse, but she changed her mind eventually. Plus the first time Miss Possibelf tried my scones, she hugged me, which probably isn’t very professional. Or maybe it’s okay. I don’t know how that whole business works.”

“No, that’s definitely not allowed.”

I turn to look at him. “How do you know?”

“I...uh...I can imagine.” He says much too quickly. He’s been especially jumpy ever since we started talking about that blog, and I can’t figure out why.

“Then there was this one guy. No one had even been that picky, or asked so many questions, or been so...demanding. So, I thought ‘yup, it’s definitely him!’. It was like an early Christmas present, and I couldn’t wait to tell Penny the next day. I also wanted to collect the tenner she’d owe me because she’d been convinced the blogger was a woman.”

“What happened?”

“The next review got posted, and it wasn’t us. I had to give the money back.”

He snorts, and I shove him gently.

“Anyways, I say, I had to give the money back and she still won’t let me forget it. Calls me Sherlock now.”

“Oh no, not Sherlock.”

“It’s not funny, she’s got the other employees doing it too.”

He winces in sympathy, and turns to look at me.

“What do you like about Christmas?”

“Why do you want to know?” I ask.

“Maybe I want to know more about you.” He says.

I blush, and then consider the question for a moment. “I think...I think my favorite thing about Christmas is mince pies...or maybe carols...or...or the lights! Like when they decorate the streets and it gets dark and everything's lit up and you just can’t help but feel festive? I love that. And, of course, I love giving presents, seeing people’s reactions to your gifts is so satisfying, you know?” I find myself saying, and Baz nods lazily.

I realize I’ve been babbling, which is unusual for me, but for some reason I feel comfortable enough. I don’t even talk this much to Penny. There’s just something about him that makes me want to tell him everything, like I could share anything. Like I could ramble on about pastries for the rest of the night and he’d listen.

“I hope my scones are enough to win underthetable over.” I continue, changing the subject and voicing an insecurity that I wouldn’t to anyone but him, “Everyone says they love my pies and cakes and biscuits, but my best sellers are my sour cherry scones. Even on holidays weirdly enough. Sure, I get orders for mince pies and puddings and the like, but I get an equal amount of requests for my scones and--”

I stop mid-sentence when I realize that he hasn’t answered in a while, and then I feel it. A heavy weight on my left shoulder where Baz has fallen asleep. I don’t blame him. I’m tired as well, and he’s warm against me, and our position it’s extremely uncomfortable but I find I don’t mind much as Baz’s hot breath hits my neck.

It isn’t long before I join him, leaning into him and drifting off to sleep with his soft hair brushing my cheek.  
\---

“Baz,” I whisper, and shake his shoulder. He mumbles in his sleep. _“Baz.”_ I try again, louder.

“No,” he mumbles, “too early.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“Then it’s _definitely_ too early.” He says, and abruptly stands up, jostling me a little. I frown and stand up as well.

“Happy Christmas,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “do you want a cookie?”

He shakes his head and puts his coat on, doing up the buttons hurriedly. “I have to go.”

“Can I see you again?” I ask hopefully.

“No.”

I try to keep my face neutral, like this doesn’t bother me at all. “Why not?”

“Because,” he says, “I’m him. I’m underthetable.”

“Okay,” I admit, “I did _not_ see that coming.”

He steps into the doorway, and I follow him. I don’t know where this is coming from, but suddenly I want to be as close to him as possible. I want to hold him and make sure he’s okay and I don’t want him to leave.

And then I remember what’s above us.

“We’re standing under mistletoe.” I say, trying not to laugh. I’m sure this wasn’t Penny’s intention when she put that up, but she insisted it was a tradition and of course I listened to her.

Baz looks up, and cracks a small smile. “So we are.”

I reach for him, and he lets me. My hands are on his cheeks and I’m pulling him down and his are on my waist and he’s pulling me close and then his mouth is on mine and we’re _kissing_. I’m kissing him, and he’s kissing me back and I try to do that thing with my chin that I know Agatha liked, and then I try to stop thinking about Agatha while I’m kissing Baz because that seems rude. His grip on my waist tightens, and he moans into my mouth.

I push my hand up into his hair. It’s smooth and slips through my fingers. I clench my fist in it, and he jams his face forward into mine--then just as suddenly snatches his head away.

“What are we doing?”

“I don’t know what you were doing, but I was kissing you.”

“Yes, I know _that_.”

“Okay,” I say, and reach for him again.

“Did you just kiss me so I wouldn’t leave?”

“No, I kissed you because I wanted to.”

He takes a step back. When I open my eyes, his arms are crossed and he’s frowning. “We can’t do this.”

“Why not? Don’t you like me?”

“You know I do.”

“So let’s go out.”

“You don’t understand, this means I can’t review your bakery.”

“I don’t care. It’s not important.”

“It was important to you before.”

“That was before I met you.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Simon...” Baz trails off.

“Snow.” I finish for him.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Simon Snow.”

I shrug. “I’ve been called worse.”

“You’re an absolute madman.”

“If you think you can insult me until I leave you alone, you’re wrong.”

Baz relaxes his arms and I catch a glimpse of the grin he’s trying to hide. “One kiss, and you think the world is upside down.”

“Two kisses,” I say. And I take him by the back of his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog on tumblr ( ﾉ ^ヮ^ )ﾉﾟ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ](http://eroticgropefest.tumblr.com/post/154909447107/mince-pies-and-mistletoe)


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